April Evening

There were frost warnings for last night, and temperatures are expected to hover at the freezing mark again in the wee hours of Thursday morning.

Isn't this always the way when spring has lured us on with balmy days that have hastened

the blooming of flowers and fruit trees!

Our strawberry plants and blackberry thicket are loaded with blossom and with set fruit.

J. gathered up an assortment of tarps, a car cover, black plastic; I contributed some old quilts and rugs.

Willis and the tortie girls came to help, Willis leaping into a sheet of heavy black plastic which J, had just succeeded in draping over a section of berry bushes.

A light but chilly wind has snapped sheets on the clothesline today.

We've kept a fire puttering along in the fireplace, to the delight of the cats who have alternated between their fenced yard and the cozy spots near the fire.

Leaving the shrouded garden we ate supper and I came in to my desk.

J. appeared waving the phone at me and muttering about 'a bird.'

He handed over the phone and son-in-law M. demanded that I 'come down quick and bring your camera.'

He and G. were waiting in their yard when I drove in as dusk gathered.

They were gazing up into one of the big maples, so I did likewise--no bird.

They led me up the hill behind the house and stopped at the edge of the woods, stood smugly waiting for me to spot whatever it was.

Suddenly the dark patterned shape splayed in the weeds made sense: a nesting woodcock.

I tried a zoom shot which blurred.

"You can step closer," advised G.  "We did and she didn't move."

The beautiful bird was motionless as I tip-toed reverently around her.

I could see the slight flutter of her heartbeat.

I longed to touch her feathers--but I knew better.

I'll go back tomorrow and try for a clearer photo in daylight.

In the wooded tangle of the hillside honeysuckle is in bloom,the scent sweet in the chilly evening.

G. pointed out yellow iris blooming in the dark green weeds--the remnant of a former owner's gardening.

Walking With Willis

Willis reclining amongst mint and catnip.

Willis and I share certain attributes of the nocturnal disposition.

Willis comes by his preference for night time prowlings through the honored legacy of feline ancestors.

My own tendancy for late evening energy was handed down from my father, whose restless late night presence pervaded my childhood home.

Like my Dad, although I stay up late, I'm up early to greet each day--not with noisy bombast and cheerful bustle, but quietly easing out of bed soon after sunrise to pull back the curtains and see

what the morning offers.

Willis the Cat is one of the first sights to meet my eye on any given morning; he may be tucked up on the east-facing porch or crouched in the edge of the herb garden near the carport. He may be under the tree from which the bird feeder dangles, putting the Fear of Feline into avian foragers by his mere presence.

Willis and I setting out through the north field.

He waits, not so much in expectation of food, as in the hope of a companionable ramble around the dooryard and the fields beyond.

A bonding moment?

Looking northeast across the field billowing with the white froth of common fleabane

[erigeron philidelphicus]

We've stopped to notice a dew-sparkled cobweb stretched over dried stems.

 

We have prowled through acres blooming with common fleabane and field mustard.

The flowers of the common fleabane often show tints of pink or lavender when freshly opened.

The Daisy fleabane has a white bloom.

The patchy bark of this tree caught my attention.

Sycamore--maybe [?]

On recent morning walks we've discovered the daubed mud towers created in moist spots by crawdads.

Willis wanders a few yards from my path at times, blending with the colors of earth and grass.

It amuses him to suddenly reappear--boisterously pouncing.

We return to the house, our ears ringing with the mockingbirds' medley of song. My tall boots have kept my feet dry as we swish through tall grass and weeds. Willis has to dry his striped stockings before he curls up for a bit of a nap.

No napping for me--its time for a hot breakfast and the work of the day.

Lizzie's Bike Ride

Wooden-wheeled bike

"Mother," said Lizzie, "When am I ever going to be taller?"

Mother raised her eyes from the socks she was darning to glance at Lizzie who was perched on the edge of a kitchen chair. 

It was the last week of June and school was out for the summer.

Lizzie wore a faded gingham blouse and a pair of short trousers handed down from a boy cousin.

Her feet, in scuffed green sneakers, were wrapped around the rungs of the chair and her brown eyes were intent.  It wasn't the first time Lizzie has fussed about her height.  As Mother hesitated, wondering how to answer, Lizzie persisted, "My birthday is next month and 13 is nearly grown up. 

I"m tired of being so short!"

"Lizzie, I expect you'll be a little taller before you're done growing, but being tall or short runs in families." Mother's voice was calm. "I'm not tall and Father is not tall."

Lizzie considered this new piece of information, sitting back in her chair and swinging one foot.

"Grandpa Zeb was tall," she mused, "and all my brothers are taller than father."

"You didn't know Grandma Betsy," replied Mother. "She was short and plump. Father is only a little taller than his mother was.  Its not something we can choose. You may have to get used to the idea that you will never be very tall."

Lizzie sighed and unwound her feet from the chair legs. The screen door slapped softly behind her as she wandered out to the front porch, pondering Mother's unwelcome prediction. 

Lizzie hadn't always minded being 'small for her age.'  Her short stature had allowed her to walk comfortably under the dining room table as a little girl.  She could take her dolls and play house there without bumping her head.

When Mother worked at the wooden counter in the pantry, Lizzie could climb from a stool to sit on the counter's edge, keeping Mother company, her head never grazing the shelves above.   If Mother was sewing, she sat on the opened flap of the treadle sewing machine; her slight weight was no burden.

It had been fun when the uncles came with their families for a Sunday visit. Lizzie loved to be swooped up and swung high, while Uncle Simon or Uncle Charles greeted her in a mixture of French and English.  To them she was "petite Lizzie."

Visits from Aunt Anna were also special.  Anna was a dressmaker and often, as soon as she was through the door, she unwrapped a parcel and shook out a new skirt or jumper.  Lizzie preened, whirling so the pleats of the skirt fanned out, admired the shiny buttons marching down the front of a corduroy jumper.

'Oh, Lizzie,"  Aunt Anna would exclaim. "You are so little I can make you a skirt from the material left over when I make some large lady's dress!"

But that was in the past.

It was not fun when she had to stand in the front row with the younger children for the Memorial Day program because, as the teacher said, "Lizzie, you are so short, if you stood in the back with your own class, no one could see you."

That recent humiliation aside, there was another reason why Lizzie wanted so much stretch upward.

It had to do with the rickety bicycle which her older brothers Larry and Warren shared.

Larry and Lizze had spent more than one rainy afternoon that spring with the 'Monkey Ward' catalog opened on the kitchen table between them.

Larry read aloud the description of a sleek bike with glossy red paint, plump tires and shiny spokes.  It even had a headlight mounted above the front fender.

Lizzie dreamed of the model in bright blue--a bike made for a girl.

The ordering information stated that it could be had in two sizes, one of them perfect for a young lady who was barely five feet tall.

The dreams ended with a jolt of reality when Larry's finger traced the price of the bikes.

Few farm families in 1931 had cash to squander on gleaming new bicycles.

The bike that lived in a corner of the woodshed was practically antique--"older than I am," grumbled Larry.

Father had bought it for a few dollars when one of the city cousins saved the money for a newer model.

The bike was heavy, with narrow, nearly bald tires mounted on wooden rims.  The seat was worn and its sparse padding poked through a rip in the scuffed leather.

Larry kept the bike's chain oiled and had used stove polish to brighten the faded paint.

He rode it sometimes to school or to scoot upstreet when Mother needed something from the store.

Lizzie, well aware that the old bike was the only one the family could afford, had made numerous attempts to master it.

In her practice runs, Larry had held the clumsy bike steady while Lizzie clambered aboard the high seat.  While he pushed she tried to pedal. As the bike trundled slowly across the grassy yard, propelled by Larry, Lizzie could stretch her short legs to just reach whichever pedal was uppermost.

Straining to reach the downward swing of the pedals she inevitable slipped off the seat and

wobbled to a halt.

Now, faced with the knowledge that a girl-sized bike was forever beyond the family budget, and frustrated with the new and unwelcome thought that future birthdays might not result in a gain of height, Lizzie determined that she would manage to ride that old wooden-wheeled monster.

She would find Larry, right now, and ask him to help.

Larry looked up from the workbench when Lizzie's slender form darkened the shop door.

He frowned at her request to 'practice' on the bicycle.

"I'm busy," he stated importantly.  "Father asked me to clean and oil all the hand tools and put them away."

"When you're done," said Lizzie, "You could help me then."

"When I"m finished with the tools," Larry replied firmly, " I'm going to clean my gun.  Clarence Munger will pay me for all the woodchucks I can shoot."

He glanced at Lizzie leaning forlornly against the doorjamb, twisting one green-shod foot in the dust and added, not unkindly,

"That old bike is too big for you. Why don't you give up on riding until you've grown into it?"

Lizzie flounced away up the path and Larry hoped she would find something to do in the house with Mother.

Lizzie, however, wasn't about to quit.

She recalled that when Larry had pushed her around the yard on the bike, the best times had been when they headed down the slope of the driveway.  The down hill momentum had helped to turn the wheels faster  and Lizzie could get in a sturdy swipe at the pedals as they flipped around.

She would find a hill and ride the bike!

Larry wiped the oily rag over the last tool and hung the cross-cut saw on a nail above the workbench.

He wanted a drink of water before he cleaned his rifle--and maybe he should see what Lizzie was up to.  She had seemed awfully down-hearted.

Pausing outside on the path, he called her name.  No answer; she must have gone in the house

 to help Mother.

Striding toward the back door he registered that the bike was no longer leaning against the side of the woodshed where he had left it at lunch time.  Struck with a sense of foreboding, he pivoted slowly to look up the gravel road.  Lizzie, pushing the old bicycle, was on the bend of the road near Mr. Munger's place, headed toward Dagnealt Hill.

Larry sprang forward.

"Lizzie!" he bellowed.  "Wait!  Lizzie!"

He thought she heard him, but her determined pace didn't falter.  As she rounded the curve in the road, Larry launched himself after her.

"Lizzie," he yelled, "Don't be stupid!"

Better to save his breath for running after her.  With any luck he could catch up with her before she got hurt.

Larry thundered past Clarence Munger's place at speed, his shoes crunching on the road's gravel surface.

Lizzie had reached the mid point of the steep hill, turned the bike around and was trying clumsily to get astraddle of the frame.

She managed to get her trousered bottom onto the high seat, her feet in the shabby green sneakers stretched toward the pedals and the bike began to roll down the incline.

For a few precarious seconds Lizzie clung to the handlebars, her feet flailing at the pedals.

The bike wobbled, gaining speed.

Larry, breathing hard, pounded his way up the hill, even as Lizzie and the bike hurtled downward.

He was close enough to see that her feet were dangling, making no contact with the pedals. The bike lurched and he heard Lizzie's choked cry as she went down, heard the scrunch and skid as the bike slid to rest in the gravel.

He reached her before she could move, flinging the bike aside into the ditch, crouching over her.

She looked so small, sprawled face down in the gritty dirt, her shoulders heaving with sobs.

"Gee-Hover Crimus, Lizzie," he swore as he pulled her into his lap.

Her chin was scraped and bleeding, her nose was running.  Larry yanked his handkerchief from his pocket--never mind that he had used it along with his rags to polish tools.

He blotted tears, blood and snot from Lizzie's face, turned her so he could assess the rest of the damage.

Both knees of the detested hand-me-down trousers were torn through, shreds of fabric clinging to Lizzie's bruised and bloody knees.  He winced at the thought of the gravel that would have to be delicately picked from the abrasions.  One elbow had taken a beating and both her palms were raw.

Larry struggled with exasperation at Lizzie's stubborness, shied away from the engulfing shame that he was somehow in part responsible for this calamity.

A few minutes of his time, a quarter hour of patient practice with the bike on the grassy lawn and this might never have happened.

"What will Mother say?" gasped Lizzie.  "And Father---is the bike wrecked?"

"Never mind the old bike!" retorted Larry, his voice gruff with tenderness.  "I guess I can fix the bike.

Can you stand up?  I've got to get you to Mother to be patched up."

Somehow he got Lizzie to her feet, heaved himself up out of the road.  Lizzie looked down at her bleeding knees, touched a trembling hand to her bruised chin.  She looked as though she might collapse

back into the gravel.

Larry turned, bending his shoulders.

"Climb on my back," he ordered.  "I'll carry you home."

Lizzie obeyed, snuffling against his shirt collar as she wound her arms around his neck.

Larry got his balance, gripped Lizzie's legs, careful not to touch her poor scraped knees.

"You won't be riding that bike for awhile," he predicted.  "But when your knees have healed up, I'll cut some blocks of wood to raise the pedals so you can reach them.  And I'll push you around the yard on that blasted bike until you get the hang of it.

Right now, I'm glad you're so small I can lug you home!"

Cousin Tom Archer told me of this incident which took place when his Mom [Lizzie] and my Dad [Larry] were living on the Old Hack Farm at the foot of Daignealt Hill.  Lizzie  included in the notes she prepared for me the details of being 'small for her age' as well as the memory of the boy's trousers and the hated green sneakers which she wore for play during the summer months.

Bike photos from dorsetfinds@wordpress

A New Garden Cart

I have been reminding [nagging?] J. that I need a managable garden cart.

I don't do well any more with hoicking sacks of peat or compost or mulch about by brute strength. [Hah!] .

I have a long history of over-filling wheelbarrows and having them overturn when I try to push them--which is not good for my back--or for my temper.

J. and I looked at the carts available at Tractor Supply on Friday and chose this one.

It came flattened in a box.

As D. appeared opportunely, he and J. put it together.

I mentioned how children of a few generations ago would have delighted in a sturdy cart or

wagon as a plaything.

D. promptly folded his 6 ft 3inch length into the cart and began urging it toward the slope of the driveway.

Gaining momentum--past the flower border.

Whee--sailing down the drive.

It was cool in the shadows under the trees and decidedly nippy as the sun went down--weather more appropriate to March or early April than the recent days of 80 F. temps.

Frost warnings were out for much of the state.

Saturday morning dawned with a heavy dew and a light shimmer of white frost which steamed away as the sun appeared over the eastern ridges.

The only sign of any frost damage here is a touch of shriveling on some of the emerging tendrils and leaves of the old grape vine.

My week was divided between hours on my [creaky] knees in my flower borders and riding with J. on endless errands.

For better or worse, I finished my compiling of figures for Income Tax.

Insomnia has been a persistant plague.

I wish I had the presence of mind to leave my bed on these frequent sleepless nights and compose the stories which whirl through my head!

Perhaps the coming week will be more productive and I will be able to work my way farther down my list of chores which 'want done.'

Tree Peony and Other Beauties

The herb garden--upper half.  See how the creeping thyme has crept!

I made a slow and sluggish start to my day--after a third night of poor sleep.

I had gotten through trundling the vacuum cleaner clumsily about, watered plants, scooped the litter boxes, all the while feeling that I wanted to curl up in a quiet corner.

J. came in and announced that he had errands in town and would be going on to Campbellsville.

I agreed to go if we could stop at Lowes.

It was already 80 degrees F by 10 oclock.

I waited through J.'s errands, drowsing in the car, a favorite gardening book in my lap.

My errand at Lowes was shopping for a trellis for the white clematis, picking up some bags of soil mix.

Flowers on the blackberry canes.

We were presented with more options for trellises than I expected.

Some were quite ornate with embellishments that would be hidden by any thriving plant.

Since the clematis vines are not heavy we chose a simple flat trellis.

Lowes garden and plant display area utilizes some sort of electronic bird scaring device which creates shrill

chitters and squawks, evidently mimicing a large predatory bird; the repetative sound track also includes some ominous hissings meant to discourage sparrows and the like from invading the garden displays.

I bought 3 pots of dianthus Fire Witch to use as part of the edging for the rock-enclosed bed.

A display of columbines [aquilegia] caught my attention.  I have some tiny self-sown ones getting lost in the rampage of mints near the Double-Red Knockout roses.

I chose one in periwinkle blue and white--it is a near replica of the one I planted in WY in memory of my dear Oscar-cat.

There were pots of un-named peonies @ 12.98 each.  Not a bad price.  There was one I coveted--a single white with bold gold stamens.  I passed it by, thinking of frugality [and the fact that my peony garden is full.]

I suppose it was inevitable that on arriving home I immediately wished I had bought the peony!

Back at home, I headed out to the shop to transplant tomatoes, happened to glance toward the

upper garden.

I ran for my camera before proceeding to gloat over the first two blooms on my tree peony.

I beleive I bought this last spring.  It was planted in the first border along the drive.  D. and I dis-interred it and moved it to the new planting area.  I didn't expect much from it this year, but see!

I wish my camera was capable of catching the texture of the petals--like crinkled tissue paper with a

slight sheen.

Peonies are such an established plant in old New England gardens that I tend to forget their Asian origins.

Something about this blossom has a very Oriental personna.

I shall have to see if the plant label survived the move.

J. put the flat trellis in place and gave some of the clematis vines a hand up the wires.

There is still a tangled clump at the base.

I am thinking at some point I will move the heavier trellis and replace it with another of the flat ones.

The heavy black trellis is quite sturdy enough to support a climbing rose--and there are several of those on my wish-list.

I closed out my day by potting on 50 tomato seedlings.

I'm not sure where I'm going to put these, as the hoped-for greenhouse has not yet materialized.

The plan has morphed from a free-standing 'kit' structure to a 'stick-built' one which will be attached to the back [south] wall of the small shop/garage which J. intends to renovate.

Last spring I crowded containers of seedlings onto the workbenches under the shop windows.  These at the moment are strewed with tools of every description.

I have about two dozen tomato seedlings remaining to pot on; a pot of achillea, one of foxglove, another of lavender have yet to grow to transplanting size.

It seems to me that one needs hours of leisure to stroll about and contemplate the beauties of spring.

I can only pray for the stamina to accomplish some of the chores that accompany the season.

A Tangle of Clematis

There were a number of pleasant surprises in the first weeks after moving here in the spring of 2010.

Not least was the discovery of two well established clematis vines.

 This photo taken April 10, 2011 shows the lovely green-veined white one.

Not so appealing was the make-shift trellis of rusty chicken wire and metal stakes.

Last September grandson Devin undertook to remove the posts while I clipped the chicken wire free and rolled it up for disposal.

D. set in place this tidy black trellis which M. had bought for me at auction.

We worked carefully around the two varieties of clematis which had set new plants amongst the large flat rocks which kept the roots shaded and cool.

The clematis began blooming last week, taking me a bit by surprise.

[Checking photos from 2011, I find that as well, the crabapple, pear, and redbuds are in bloom this year 10 days to two weeks early.]

I have been tying in the vines growing at the base of the trellis, coaxing in any that would reach the supports without strain.

I am left with a wayward clump of the white vines which won't reach the trellis.

One lengthy vine had clambered over a clipped boxwood next to the carport and was venturing around the brick wall . I gently guided it back toward the parent plant.

This is easily identified as the old favorite Nellie Moser.

This single blossom is on a length of new growth vine only about 10 inches tall.

A ladybug displayed against exquisite white petals.

I don't have a name for the white clematis, although I expect it is an old standard.

I don't want to revert to ugly wire, but need to devise a way to tie up these vines before they sprawl into the path of the lawnmower.

In clearing this area D. and I removed strangling lengths of a non-productive grape vine, which had wound through the nandina, gripped the eave troughs and the edge of the carport roof.

This sprig of Nellie Moser wasn't noticeable  last year--it is now twining gracefully through the nandina.

During my many years of gardening in Vermont I coveted a clematis [or 2 or 3!]  I wasn't sure that they would be hardy there.

As I have looked through the varieties on offer in a number of on-line nurseries I realize that

the two established here have enduring appeal.

I would, however, like to plant an autumn-flowering clematis.

Perhaps when the greenhouse becomes a reality I can situate one along the wall.

But--isn't that where I dream of planting a climbing rose?

After nearly an hour of searching through on-line images and plant catalogues,

I'm prepared to guess that my white clematis may be Alabast.  The photos and descriptions match well.

this variety was introduced in 1998, so certainly not an heirloom.

The other possibility is Duchess of Edinburgh which is early flowering, described as having green shading.

In most photos it appears to be more double-flowered  than mine.

Morning Stroll

The view from the front porch where I sat with my coffee this morning, soaking up lovely sunshine warmth.

It is loud with bee-song beneath the redbuds, a busy humming.

Dogwood bloom against a clear blue sky.

There are fancier hybrids of dogwood.  These were planted by the former owners.

I love the chartreuse-marked creamy white of the petals with the distinctive darker "toothmarks."

The entire dooryard is perfumed by the two straggling viburnams at the north-west corner of the house.

In the autumn I pruned out a strangle of honeysuckle vine that had wound through the bigger viburnum--there is more of it, triumphantly flaunting its leathery green leaves and twisting stems.

I must make time to tackle it before more leaves interfere.

The three apple trees probably date to the time of the earlier house on this property.

They are twisted and over-grown, with grey lichen encrusting the trunks and branches.

The upper branches, long unpruned, overlay one another resembling the clasped arthritic fingers

of an elderly person.

They have set fruit during both of our sumners here, fruit that quickly succumbed to fire blight.

Still, for a week in spring they have a nostalgic sweetness of blossom.

The earliest peonies are displaying plump buds.

This peony, purchased last spring and moved from the lower border to the upper area which Devin created, is showing brave little buds.

There is a possibility of rain this afternoon.  You can see from the look of the soil that it will be welcomed.

I should have worked some peat moss into this spot when we dug it over.

Dogwood with a redbud behind it.

Dogwood--a close-up on the 'macro' setting.

I long to spend every possible moment outside, heedless of housework,

content to stave off starvation with a mug of tea, a handful of crackers, a stout slice of cheese, an apple.

I am grumpy at having to devote myself to preparation of income tax data.

The well-organized person would keep up with ledger entries by the month, smugly producing the totals by mid-January.

[I doubt anyone would categorize me as organized!]

I have sowed a small flat of sweet banana peppers, potted on a cutting from an heirloom geranium, watered the tomato seedlings. 

I have ordered online seeds, as well as flea doses for the cats.

I have visited Pebbles the Horse.

The dooryard entices me with scents and sights. I can walk only a few yards without bending to sniff  a blossom, pluck a weed or two, admire a fresh green shoot poking from the earth.

I have a story or two to write, some genealogy research to pursue.

I have invited Gina and Devin to supper--knowing that will motivate me to prepare 'real food.'

The table is strewed with adding machine, pens, ledger, invoices, receipts--all it needs is for me to

get on with it!